


the man from the sea

by fakeCRfan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Flying Dutchman, M/M, Not sure about the ending on this one, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, but it probably won't be a happy one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeCRfan/pseuds/fakeCRfan
Summary: “And so every seven years the man gets to hope. He gets to return to land and be among people. Then he gets to learn again, and again, that no one will ever love him. In this way, the cycle has continued for over two hundred years.''If Martin Blackwood can find someone who will love him, and stay in love with him for the rest of their life, he can be free. Otherwise he has to stay in the Lonely, forever trapped by Peter Lukas's curse.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 22
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (takes a giant guzzle of vodka) Okay, so the source material I am basing this on is fucking problematic and has a bad ending--or what I consider a bad ending. I have the basic structure of this planned out, but I am still unsure what the ending is going to be. So, uh, just to be clear--don't read this when you are looking for a happy ending cuz... there probably won't be one.
> 
> Also, **please** be mindful of the tags.

Here is the story of the _Flying Dutchman_ , more or less complete--though perhaps a bit muddied from many tellings.

There were already legends of ghosts ships when Martin set sail for the first time. Different sightings here and there sprouting different legends, and each giving their ghost ship a different name. Martin had even heard some of them, in the past. Stories about phantoms vessels that vanished when you drew near. There was already talk of a ship with one man alone on it, his misery and punishment fueling the vessel’s cursed existence as a kind of human sacrifice.

Martin Blackwood hadn’t heard much about that, though. He had no connection to the sailing business when he started, so he’d only caught a little of the myths passed from crew to crew.

In general, Martin was not cut out to be a sailor at all. Especially not at the exorbitant price Captain Lukas offered. But of course, that was rather the point.

In the future, he would look back and wonder if he should have seen the signs. The money was probably the biggest one. Far too much for the position of an ordinary seaman—especially too much for a 20 year old boy who didn’t even know what the title meant when he first heard the offer. Martin hadn’t even been on a boat before. But his mother was getting sicker by the day, their money was running low, and he was getting desperate.

That didn’t stop his mother from being against him taking the offer, of course. Mrs. Blackwood didn’t believe in good things. She held anything that seemed easy in sharp-tongued contempt.

“All that glisters is not gold,’’ she used to tell him.

But in the end, work was too scarce and food was running too low. Peter Lukas even offered to pay half in advance—with even that much being more money than Martin had ever handled in his life, and enough to hire help for his mother while he was away. His mother quieted then, going from objecting outwardly to a sullen huffing from her bed.

“Don’t trust any of it,’’ she told him the day he left. “If you have to be obstinate and go against what your mother says, at least don’t trust any of them for a minute.’’

It was the closest thing she came to saying ‘’I’ll miss you,’’ or “I worry about you.’’ Martin decided to take it as such. He bent down to kiss her on the cheek before he left.

“I love you,’’ he told her. “I’ll be back before you know it.’’

Mrs. Blackwood didn’t return the sentiment, but then she’d never been a sentimental woman. Martin decided it was enough.

The ship Martin boarded was called the _Tundra_ , rather than the _Flying Dutchman_. But Martin did get to hear of the _Flying Dutchman_ that day. Just a passing conversation on the docks that day, a whisper between a man and a woman as he was stepping on board.

“—bought the ship and lost it in the span of a week—’’

“—Lukas family, doesn’t matter if you—’’

“—the _Flying Dutchman_ on it’s maiden voyage—’’

Martin heard it, and paid little mind. Instead, he put his mind to work following the boatswain’s orders, trying not to trip over his feet. It was nervous, busy work. He fumbled, desperate not to show his ignorance when Peter Lukas himself came and slapped him on the back, making Martin yelp.

“Excellent work there, Mr. Blackwood,’’ he said, cheerily. “You’re gonna be a perfect fit. I can already tell.’’

Lukas was a solitary man, rarely speaking with the crew, but un-personable when he did so. Still Martin withered under the seemingly friendly attention.

“Now, Peter,’’ said the man next to Lukas, a companion of some kind with keen eyes. Martin would later know him to be Elias Bouchard, a researcher who had come aboard for reasons Martin hadn’t caught. “You’re scaring the lad.’’

The two of them laughed as though it were some kind of joke, and then mercifully moved on without waiting for Martin to speak. Martin let his shoulders drop, thankful to return to work, even if he wasn’t very good at it.

Once they had set sail and there was a moment for him to breathe, there were two things that caught Martin’s attention before midday.

The first was the eerie quiet. No one spoke, even as they worked together. When Martin asked questions, he was given short, curt answers at best or a quiet glare at worst. He shrank back, and went quiet. Martin hadn’t sailed before, so he decided this must be normal--even if he had heard stories about sailors being loud and boisterous.

The second was Sean Carter.

It was easy to notice Sean immediately, of course. Nearly as young as Martin, though not as new to the trade. Martin heard him first rather than saw him: a beautiful voice cutting through the silence, singing out to the family waving at him from the harbor. The sound almost made Martin drop what he was doing.

Sean Carter wasn’t having the silence. Martin would later get to hear he was used to belting out sea shanties as he worked. Martin got to hear half a verse before

“Stop that, Carter’’ snapped the boatswain. “The Captain won’t have any of that rubbish.’’

Then, Sean turned back around, and Martin saw that it wasn’t just his voice that was beautiful.

“Oops, sorry sir,’’ Sean said, instantly regretful, scratching his head. “Won’t happen again sir.’’

Martin ached to hear the rest of the song. But he kept his head down.

There was a third thing that caught Martin’s attention the very first day, this time in the evening before going to bed. Right when he was passing by the captain’s cabin, he caught a conversation. Peter Lukas’s voice, cheerfully talking with Elias Bouchard.

“And wouldn’t Carter be appropriate, for that purpose?’’ Bouchard asked.

“For a sacrifice?’’ Lukas replied. “He’s certainly fit enough. Good disposition. He’d be terrified out of his wits if we sacrificed him. But you know…’’

Martin started. He stopped, but the voices were already too muddied to make out. He shook his head, unsettled, trying to convince himself that he misheard. Still, as he drifted off to sleep that night, the words ‘’sacrifice’’ and his mother’s order to not trust rang in his head.

* * *

Any hope of the hostile silence fading the next day vanished in the morning. If anything, the crew of the _Tundra_ was worse. Martin only got more glares and dirty glances as time went on. Not just for asking questions anymore, but for all his fumbling, for dropping things, for tripping, for getting horribly seasick. Still, he tried his best.

“So,’’ he asked the man beside him below deck at mealtime. “Have you, um, sailed much before? I mean, sorry, what’s your name?’’

The glare he got chilled him to the bone. He simply turned back to his empty bowl, hot-faced, trying his best to pretend he hadn’t said anything. He waited for something, anything to happen—but the crew didn’t play any games, sing any songs, or even have conversations in their free time.

There was exactly one point of comfort. Sean seemed to be as flabbergasted as he was.

“What,’’ Martin heard him asking defensively. “You don’t play any poker? Don’t tell any jokes?’’

“Quit it, Carter.’’

“If I wanted to sit around like I was in church I’d go to--to church!’’ Sean groused. “But I didn’t. I’m a sailor, so I expect booze and noise.’’

Martin ached sympathetically every time he heard Sean get reprimanded. Still, while he stood there silently agreeing, he couldn’t quite bring himself to go up to the guy, or even to look him in the face. In fact, he tried to avoid looking at Sean at all. He tried to keep his eyes away, something hurting a bit when he looked at him and thought of him boldly singing out to the sea that first day.

So, of course, Sean had to approach him first. A slap on the back first—lighter than what Lukas occasionally did, but still enough to make Martin yelp in surprised.

“You,’’ he said, voice toned almost to a whisper after being berated so many times. “You seem like less of a wanker than this lot.’’

“I, th-thanks?’’

“You strike me as a guy who wouldn’t object to stealing out to the deck when the rest of the crew during my watch to get drunk and have a good time for once.’’

“Thanks!’’ Martin said, before he understood what Sean was saying. “W-wait.’’

Sean patted him on the back. “Perfect. Looking forward to it.’’

“Wait, I didn’t—’’

But Martin did. One night of quiet, sneaky poker and drinks turned into several nights, which turned into shared glances and winks that made Martin turn red.

“There’s something off about this ship,’’ Sean told him when no one else was listening. “I would say smuggling but, honestly? The last ship I was on had some fingers in those pies, and they weren’t this cagey.’’

Martin remembered that half-heard conversation about sacrifice, about Sean, and he felt his stomach turn.

* * *

Martin decided if there was something wrong, and if that something meant the nicest person he’d met yet was in danger, he wouldn’t forgive himself for not looking into it. With that in mind, he set about snooping.

The first thing he looked into was the cargo. It was shamefully easy, even if every moment made Martin feel like he was going to die of pure fear of being caught. He thought it had to be something horrible, something illegal. Instead, he found barrels rusted into place—clearly not moved for years. Then, he looked inside, went completely cold.

“Nothing,’’ he told Sean in whispers, later. “There’s nothing!’’

Sean stared at him. “No way,’’ he said. “Not… not some kind of tariff dodging stuff?’’

“No.’’

“Then what’s the point?’’ Sean asked. “Maybe it’s just… some weird rich people thing, pretending to be useful.’’

Martin thought back to his mother’s warning and the conversation he’d overheard from the captain’s cabin. His brain raced with paranoia. “Or… the crew is the cargo,’’ he wondered aloud.

Sean pulled a face. “Nah,’’ he said. “Cheaper ways to get people to sell than what they offered us. It wouldn’t make any sense.’’

“But…’’

Martin took a breath, and then explained what he’d overhead from Lukas’s cabin. Even then, he still thought it must have been something he’d misheard, or that he was being overly dramatic about. He waited for Sean to tell him he was being stupid. Instead, Sean frowned deeply, thinking.

“Well,’’ Sean coughed. “If we want to know… I mean. I miiiight be able to pick the lock on the captain’s cabin. And we could… look for something?’’

They both contemplated for a moment. Martin thought of the money, and his mother, and of all the ways he might have misinterpreted what he’d overheard.

“Too risky,’’ Sean said before him. “I mean, the rich old bastard’s always in that cabin. I hardly ever see him leave.’’

“Yeah, I can’t—’’ Martin gulped. “I can’t.’’

“Me neither,’’ Sean sighed. “This job is sort of my last lifeline, you know what I mean?’’

Martin nodded. “Yes but…’’ he swallowed. “Watch out? I mean, they… they mentioned you specifically so. Please look out for yourself, just in case?’’

Sean grinned, punching him in the shoulder. “You’re worse than my mum, you know that? Of course I will. Thanks for the head’s up.’’

Martin really did intend to leave it there. But then, of course, he just happened to be passing by when Lukas had left his cabin with the door wide open. Before he knew what he was doing, he was snooping.

It wasn’t hard to find what he was looking for. There was a journal open on the desk, all laid out as though it were waiting for someone to snoop on it. Research notes, it seemed—Bouchard’s. But it wasn’t notes on insects or strange animals, which Martin had expected when he heard Bouchard was a researcher. Instead, it was notes on the occult, all laid out in plain language that made Martin’s face drain of color—cults to evil gods, human sacrifices made for the sake of increasing power, and even a mention of a ship, the _Flying Dutchman_ , that Lukas apparently used in such a ritual.

Martin read and read, heart-racing. Then, the door closed.

“Why, hello there Martin Blackwood,’’ Peter Lukas said cheerfully. “Fancy seeing you here.’’

* * *

Martin lurched away, but Lukas grabbed him by the arm. Martin wasn’t small, or especially weak for someone his age, but Lukas’s grip was like cold iron.

“Stop,’’ Martin pleaded. “Stop! Let go!’’

“Oh don’t bother with that,’’ Peter Lukas said. “No one will hear you. Now, what were you reading about? The rituals I presume. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Especially since Elias told me you and that Carter boy started snooping around.’’

“Wh—what are you going to do to him?’’ Martin asked, his voice wavering. “I won’t let you! Whatever you’re planning to do I won’t let you!’’

Martin tried to sound brave and didn’t quite manage it.

“Is that what you’re worried about?’’ Lukas asked, sounding like Martin had said something very funny. “That’s rather sweet. Come on, why don’t I explain some things to you? Here, let’s take a bit of a tour.’’

He started to move toward the door. Martin took advantage and broke free, running out.

“Help!’’ he called. “Everyone, Lukas is—’’

But of course, it didn’t matter what Martin shouted. No one could hear him, or see him. Lukas’s touch had Turned him completely invisible. It took him a moment of screaming and pleading with an un-seeing first mate to realize this. He ran madly around the deck, until in desperation he made it to the cargo hold, hoping they wouldn’t find him. It only took a moment for him to hear Bouchard’s chuckling, just out of his sight.

“What—’’ Martin’s voice wobbled. “What’s going on?’’

Peter was there, as though he’d appeared from thin air. He threw a mockingly friendly arm around Martin that froze him in place.

“There now,’’ Peter said. “No one can see you just yet. Well, except for Elias.’’

“And I was quite enjoying the show,’’ drawled Bouchard.

“Now, since you were so curious,’’ Lukas said. “Let’s catch you up on what’s happening. Sacrifices. I make a sacrifice of one person to my god every year or so. We were all set to pick one from the crew. Normally, I get some new, low-ranking sailors and pick one to sacrifice from the lot after we’ve been at sea for a bit. This time--’’

“Sean,’’ Martin said. “You were going to--I heard you.’’

Lukas actually sounded petulant. “Really, you have only known him for less than a month and you’re already so concerned about him. But there is really no need for that--we were toying with the idea of using Carter, but from the first night aboard it was pretty clear it was going to be you. It was always going to be you.

Martin froze.

“Elias,’’ Lukas asked. “Does Carter share the same concern for Mr. Blackwood here?’’

“He does not,’’ Bouchard said. “Sean Carter would throw any man on this ship overboard for the right price--and the salary Lukas gives is far above the right price. Nothing personal, of course.’’

“You see, Mr. Blackwood--Martin, I think I’ll call you Martin,’’ Peter Lukas said. “This ritual doesn’t work without the tacit permission of the whole crew. It’s the willingness of human beings to abandon and shun one of their own for a buck that makes the whole thing so much fun.’’

Martin snapped to attention, and shoved Lukas away. He made for the door, but Bouchard calmly stepped in front of it, blocking Martin from leaving.

“He doesn’t believe you, Peter,’’ Bouchard said. “You see, Martin here is thinking that humans are ‘naturally good’ and thus they wouldn’t comply with this if they knew what was going on.’’

“Shut up,’’ Martin said. “Get out of my way.’’

“I don’t think I will.’’

“I’ll—I’ll push you!’’

“No you won’t,’’ Bouchard said. “You’re not exactly a man of action, are you Mr. Blackwood? It’s much easier to fantasize that your friend—that all of the crew—would help you, if only they could hear. Because people are fundamentally good—isn’t that what you think?’’

“Must be a disappointing life, thinking that way,’’ Lukas said.

“They are!’’ Martin said. “They wouldn’t—otherwise you wouldn’t keep this secret, would you? You wouldn’t have--vanished me, if you weren’t afraid of them knowing! If they—if everyone knew, they would mutiny! That’s why—that’s…’’

Bouchard chuckled.

“I’ll make that wager,’’ Lukas said.

Martin froze. “What?’’

“I’ll let you go out, let everyone see and hear what you have to say,’’ Lukas said cheerfully. “If you’re right, you win! You get to go free! But, if they just turn away, well… then of course, I get to do what I want with you.’’

“Rubbish deal, if you ask me,’’ Bouchard drawled. “As though you couldn’t do what you wanted with him, anyway.’’

“Shush, I am having a bit of fun, Elias,’’ Lukas said. “I’ll make it even sweeter, Martin. If a single person says anything at all in your defense, I’ll just drop it. You get to go home to your mother with a full paycheck. Deal?’’

Peter held out his hand.

“Wh—’’ Martin gulped. “Do I have a choice?’’

Lukas grabbed his hand and shook on it. “That’s the spirit.’’

Bouchard stepped away from the door. Martin wanted to run, but for a moment froze, worried about what would happen next. Then, Lukas all but shoved him out. The veil over him was lifted, and crewmembers were staring. Then, Lukas blew his captain’s whistle to summon the crew.

“I—’’ Martin wanted to halt, to have a moment to put himself together. Instead, it happened all too fast. Suddenly everyone was there, every cold uncaring face from the past few days, everyone who had told him to shut it. Martin couldn’t help but look away.

“Everyone,’’ Martin tried, but Lukas spoke over him.

“Alright, everyone,’’ Lukas said. “I know normally we’re a lot subtler about the selection process, but Mr. Blackwood here’’ —he clapped Martin’s shoulders in that faux-friendly manner— ‘’Has been playing detective. So here is how this will go. None of you will be seeing Mr. Blackwood again. Tomorrow, he will be completely erased. Is that clear?’’

“Don’t—’’ Martin stammered, tripping over his own words. “He’s been—been killing people! Hiring people into the crew to-to kill them. Don’t—he’ll—you—next—’’

In the face of the crowd, Martin couldn’t manage the words “Don’t let him kill me.’’ He stammered off into silence, and at the end only managed a wobbly, “’Please don’t.’’

He waited to hear something—anything. At least from the newer members of the crew. In the face of complete silence, Martin drew his head up to look at the crew.

He regretted it. He met their eyes, and the image burned into his mind. A crowd staring back at him dispassionately, unimpressed—annoyed with him, even. Their indifference shot through him like ice running down his spine. It hurt—physically hurt as much as if they had all thrown stones at him.

At the very back, Sean would not meet his eyes.

“No objections?’’ Lukas asked. “Questions?’’

Nothing. Eventually, Bouchard’s infuriating chuckle broke the silence.

“Alright, now that we’ve gotten the dramatics out of the way,’’ Lukas said. “Roger, Tom—take Mr. Blackwood somewhere he can’t run away.’’

The rest bled together. Martin felt himself grabbed by strong hands. He struggled, felt blows, but all of it seemed far away after the cold stare of the crowd. They threw him somewhere—a room without windows—and locked him in. He banged at the door, furiously shook the knob for what felt like hours, and then he collapsed to the floor and let himself cry.

Martin woke up, the memory of the day before washing over him like a sickness. The same pain of those uncaring gazes shot through his brains, and he curled up.

Sacrifice. The word laid heavy on him.

He expected he would get thrown overboard, at the very least. Or maybe put in chains at the shore to get fed to a sea-monster. Maybe taken to some island and tied to an altar, where they would slit his throat.

He waited, imagination racing as nothing happened. He sat there miserably, waiting for a knock and a death that never came. Eventually, he went back to the door and tried the knob.

It opened, and he gasped.

He waited a moment, first trying to see around the corners of the door. Then, he burst out. He expected to be swarmed, or tackled, or knifed—but nothing.

There was no one aboard.

Running turned to walking. He looked around. Every turn, every bit of the boat was not quite familiar. Still, he kept looking, expecting to find someone.

“Hello?’’ he asked weakly. “Is anyone there? Is anyone left?’’

“…Sean? C-captain Lukas? Anyone? Please…’’

He looked over the edge of the ship. There was no land in sight. There were no lifeboats aboard, either. But when he looked down, the side, he finally saw there was a different name carved into the shit than the one he had set off on.

The _Flying Dutchman_ _._

* * *

It took Martin some time to realize what had happened to him.

For the first few days, his biggest fear was seeing the crew show up again. He would wake in the night in a panic because in his dreams Lukas and the crew showed up. Then, slowly, as no one showed, that got replaced by other fears. Running out of food. Storms. Leaks. Anything that would damage the ship, that would would sink the ship to the bottom of the ocean, taking him with it.

The days went—well. There wasn’t a clear distinction between days anymore. Martin would go to sleep and wake up, and every time he looked at the sky it was the same dismal gray, like a foggy morning or evening. Never light, but never getting dark enough for Martin to call it night time.

Martin slept below deck, in a room with uncomfortable empty bunk beds. The captain’s cabin was empty, but he barely dared to even look at it. He rifled through some drawers around the crew quarters and found some things—notebooks and pens, being the most important.

He made a decision, and started writing.

 _I am going to stay as sane as I can,_ he wrote. _I don’t know what happened or where I am now, but I am sure in enough time someone will find this ship and I’ll get to go home. In the meantime I am going to do everything I can so I am not a madman by the time they find me._

_To any of the crew--I understand. I forgive you. You were afraid, too._

He wrote down his best guess at the day by using the date he last remembered before the confrontation with Lukas and added the amount of times he had fallen asleep since then. Then, he started to do his best to keep track of the days, writing the date once he woke up and making a journal entry. He wrote down everything he remembered happening first. Then he wrote about what was on his mind, about his mother and how terribly he missed her, about his worries over running out of food.

Then, it started to get harder. After days of nothing happening, there became less and less to write about. He started to fill up the pages with poetry, instead.

_Still no one. It’s been two weeks… how long until someone finds me? I am worried about food…_

He ate. He drank. He wrote. He slept. Finally, he summoned the courage to go into the captain’s cabin. Instead of being eaten by a monster, he found manuscripts. Untitled leather tomes that, when he looked through them, seemed to be collections of letters and research notes—every single one of them on the subject of the supernatural. Not his usual fare, but he was desperate for anything to take his mind off the mind-numbing nothingness.

He read about impossible corridors, people being dragged into the ground alive or sealed up into walls. He read a letter supposedly from a man who found himself in a world exactly identical to the one he knew, but without any people in it.

Martin still did not understand.

_It has been almost two months, and I have noticed something strange. I was worried about the food running out. I started to take stock of it recently, and I realize every day, no matter how much I eat, when I wake up there is the same amount as before._

Martin had stayed away from alcohol, before. Sean had laughed at him, because even a small glass of whiskey made him cough up a storm. Now he started to drink every night. First a glass or two to try and calm the overwhelming unease, and then soon he was drinking himself into a stupor every night. Sobbing, vomiting

_I did the calculations. I should have run out of alcohol a week ago. But it’s the same as with the food. Every day there’s the same amount, no matter how much I drank the night before._

He thought about his mother every day. The day he had found out his father was never coming home, she had fallen upon the kitchen table when she thought he couldn’t see, sobbing into her hand and shaking. Later she would be bedridden, but that day would still be the weakest he’d ever seen her. Now, Martin had left her too.

How would she take care of herself?

“I’m sorry, mum,’’ he said aloud. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.’’

He cried. He wrote her letters and stuffed them into empty bottles, throwing them into the sea. He wasn’t sure if he believed in God the same way his mother did, but he prayed. He prayed for the letters to reach her, for the world to be kind to her now that he wasn’t there to take care of her.

His journal entries fluctuated from long and articulate, to short, unintelligent pleas.

_How long? How long?_

Ninety days in, and he was drunk and vomiting when he finally saw a ship on the horizon. He sobbed with relief, throwing himself to the railing and screaming.

“I’m here!’’ he said, throat dry. “Oh god, please see me.’’

They sailed just close enough for him to see the men on board. He reached out in relief.

“You found me!’’ he cried. “Thank god, you found me! Please, help!’’

The captain looked at him and paled. Martin froze, the same painful, icy feeling flooding his nerves as the day his own crew had turned on him. He looked to the eyes of the men aboard the ship. There wasn’t any compassion or pity there—only fear.

Then, they vanished. Like a mirage, or a dream. He was reaching out only to the fog. Martin screamed like a child, angry for the first time since this had happened to him. He fell to the floor, and beat his fists on the ground until his angry screams turned to weak sobs. He grabbed his face, curling in on himself.

There were no mirrors aboard the _Flying Dutchman_. Martin hadn’t seen his own face in a long time. What had those men seen that made them so horrified?

“Don’t leave me…’’ he gasped aloud, as though they could hear him. “I’m sorry… don’t leave me.’’

He passed out there. When he woke up to the same clouded grey sky, he found himself not wanting to get up. He lay there for hours, utterly defeated, before he rose. He leaned against the railing of the ship, and looked down at the water.

For the considered throwing himself overboard. To try and swim from this cursed ship, to get to shore—or at least to end this nightmare.

He didn’t. He wrote another letter to his mother. He returned to his notebook, marked the date, and wrote.

_When you finally consider dying, when you really consider it—it stays with you. It’s not a thought that leaves when you decide not to go through with it. It stays. It grows. It festers like a wound._

He slept. He woke. He ate. He marked the day in his journal. He read through the dense notes on the occult. He wrote. He looked hard into the sea and considered killing himself. And then, he did it all again.

At night, he had dreams of drowning. Screaming through the water seeping into his lungs. Sometimes there were blurry figures above water. They watched a moment as he reached out, before turning away and leaving him to die alone. Sometimes there was no one at all. And he would die, completely unknown by all in the world. And it would go on without him.

Wake. Eat. Mark the day. Read. Write. Consider suicide. Send another desperate letter in a bottle. Sleep.

And again. And again.

More ships came. Some came close enough to see him, only for the crews to recoil in horror as the first had. Some stayed a shadow on the horizon, unresponsive as he called or fired flares into the air in the hopes they would see. All of them vanished the same, like ghosts disappearing into the fog.

 _I called the first one a ghost ship. Now I realize I had it wrong._ _This_ _is the ghost ship. I am the phantom. I wonder if they tell stories of me, back on shore?_

There were days where he did not get up. He just laid in his uncomfortable cot, unable to write—unable to think of anything. Misery choked out all will and all thought. He closed his eyes, wishing it all to go away. Wishing he had kept the bottles close to his bed, so he could try to drink it all away without having to get up. He slept.

In his dreams, he started to hear Peter Lukas’s voice in his ear as he drowned.

“You were always perfect, Martin,’’ Peter Lukas whispered into his ear. “No one to miss you, no one to love you, and you want those things so badly. This was always going to be your fate.’’

Wake. Eat. Mark the day. Read. Write. Consider suicide. Sleep.

He stopped calling to ships when they appeared on the horizon. He stopped reaching out to the men he saw. He stopped hoping.

He dreamed again. He was drowning. Alone, forgotten—but this time, he understood. It was not water he was drowning in. Not water—not fog, though that was closer. It was a thick, viscous substance that filled his throat and his lungs and his heart, seeping down to every cell in his body so he was flooded with it. Slowly, it ate him, savoring his fear and his despair, digesting him from the inside out, devouring him slowly while he still lived. As it did so, he could feel its will—ugly, malicious, utterly gleeful as his fear spiked. All of the joy of a cat playing with a mouse.

Martin woke up gasping. He fell off his cot and onto the floor. Everything—Peter Lukas’s talk of sacrifice, the horrible stories in the manuscripts, the dream—clicked together. When Martin stopped hyperventilating, he finally understood.

It wasn’t his death that Lukas's god—Lukas’s _thing_ wanted. It was his living misery—his fear, his despair, his loneliness. He was a living sacrifice, every waking and sleeping moment. He was fuel on the fire, food in the belly, and he was never, ever going to leave.

Martin considered killing himself again. Instead, he marked the day, and put another letter to his mother in the bottle.

_I love you._

It was all he could muster. He threw the bottle into the sea, and watched it disappear into the fog.

It had been a year and a day, and there would be more to come.

* * *

Martin kept to his routine, and a kind of acceptance set in.

Not peace. Not happiness. But the nights of sobbing stopped. He got bored of drinking himself to the point of puking, and so he stopped. He started to forget things, and he stopped trying to remember. He started to be able to sit for long periods of time with no thoughts, no feelings, just pure emptiness and the weight of despair that he no longer struggled against.

Seven years in, Peter Lukas appeared.

“Well, well,’’ sniffed Peter Lukas. “You really are perfect, Martin—and you just cost me a lot, did you know that? Of course you didn’t.’’

Martin stared at him, not believing his eyes for a second. It took him a while to formulate words.

“Fuck off, Peter.’’

“See, that’s what I like about you! So much spirit!’’

Peter Lukas tried to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. Martin shoved him away. Peter Lukas actually laughed at that.

“Don’t you want to hear how you cost me?’’ Peter asked. “I like wagers, you see—you might have picked that up from our encounter all those years ago. But anyway, I like wagers. I made one on you, against Elias.’’

“Oh yeah?’’ Martin asked.

“I bet you wouldn’t last seven years,’’ Peter said cheerfully. “Elias said you would.’’

Martin stared.

“I have sent men before you to the _Dutchman_ ,’’ he said. “None of them lasted long. Threw themselves overboard, the lot of them. Before you, the guy who lasted the longest only made it three years. Three!’’

Martin, never a violent man before all this, nonetheless considered stabbing Lukas. Or strangling him.

“So of course I thought no one could make it to seven,’’ Lukas said. “That would be beyond the limits of normal humanity, by all reasonable estimation. But it turns out you’re not normal, Martin.’’

Martin glowered. It was so hard to think of words, so hard to come up with anything but hate hate hate. “And so you’re going to finally kill me?’’

“Absolutely not,’’ Peter said, indignantly. “I can’t even stay mad at you. Would a farmer kill his prize milking cow? Or his best laying hen? The Lonely loves you, Martin. All those other men got used up in a year or so, but here you are, seven years in and you’re still throwing bottles into the ocean for your mother.’’

Martin’s eyes actually stung. “Shut up,’’ he said hoarsely.

“Now, though,’’ Lukas sighed. “Things have been getting rather boring over here. Definitely not as fun to peek in as during your early days. So—’’

“Shut up!’’

“—would you like to see your mother again?’’

That actually made Martin freeze. He stuttered. “You—you would—’’

“How much do you want to see her?’’ Peter Lukas asked, grinning.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut.

“Well?’’

“What do you want?’’ Martin asked.

Peter grinned. “I was thinking of another wager.’’

* * *

Martin’s legs were wobbly on land, but he ran. He ran and ran until he made it to the sanatorium and laid eyes on his mother—still alive, still alive, in spite of everything. Then, they gave out and he fell to his knees and wept all the tears he didn’t know he still had in him.

“Mum,’’ he said. “Mum, it’s me. I’m back. I’m back!’’

She didn’t say anything, but she looked. Her wrinkled face was impassive, unmoving.

“My Martin,’’ she said weakly. “Indeed, you are.’’

Martin had six months on land with his mother. Six months, as per his deal with Peter Lukas.

He took her from the miserable, dirty sanatorium she’d been confined to in his absence and gave her everything. He used Lukas’s money to buy a house she could be comfortable in, and he doted on her every waking moment to make up for lost time. He got her a soft bed and fine clothes. He made her tea and brought her breakfast in bed. He brushed out her hair and read to her in the evenings as she went to sleep.

She wasn’t like he remembered. There were no sharp-tongued remarks, no fits of screaming. Instead, she always seemed to be looking past him, or away, or out the window—her mind somewhere else.

“What are you thinking, mum?’’ he asked.

She wouldn’t answer him, and that re-awakened that ice cold fear he knew so well. Still, he didn’t want to trouble her, so he let it lie. He knew she must be happy like this.

He started to have to remind her, to nudge her when she wouldn’t answer. “Mum. Mum. Is there something wrong?’’

“If you have a problem,’’ she said drily, lacking all of the sharpness he remembered. “You can can always put me back in the sanatorium.’’

“I won’t!’’ Martin said. “Don’t even joke about that. I love you.’’

She didn’t say anything back.

Martin had six months on land. Five months in, his mother died, and there was nothing for him in her heart but weariness and hatred.

Martin felt it as she died in his arms. He saw it all as it had been through her eyes. The guilty feeling of relief when she’d heard he’d died—pure relief that finally, finally the boy was no longer her responsibility. That she would never have to look at his pitying face again. That she would never have to bite down her rage out of motherly duty.

That was a shock in itself--that even with all her sharp words over the years, she had been holding back.

He felt everything she’d felt about him in the last few months—fear, weariness, indifference, hate, hate—guilt at how much she hated him. Indignance that she had a duty to keep it all in.

And so, dying with no love in her heart for him, Martin’s mother became the first wager he lost to Peter Lukas.

* * *

* * *

“For that is the wager that Peter Lukas made with the lonely man. The deal that supposedly can end his curse.’’

Jonathan Sims rose from his desk, eyes seeing beyond the clutter of his office, nerves flooded with the ecstasy of knowing.

“The lonely man gets to return to land, to people, for a time. If in that time he can find someone who loves him, and who will continue to love him for the rest of their life, the curse will be broken and he will be free. But if he can’t find any such love, of if they stop loving him, he is forced to return to the _Flying Dutchman_ and endure another seven years alone on the waves.

“Why would Lukas offer this? Why would he possibly give the lonely man this reprieve, this hope? Why, to properly whet the poor man’s despair, of course. There is little joy in devouring a bland, accepting meal. Much better to have the prey feel hope, to be able to go among people again. Watching him try so hard to win someone, anyone’s love is more fuel on the fire. It makes the crash of rejection all the sweeter, and starts the despair anew, as fresh as the first day he was abandoned by his crewmates.

“So every seven years the man gets to hope. Then he gets to learn again and again that no one will ever love him. And in this way, the cycle has continued for over two hundred years.’’

The vision faded, and Jon stopped. In front of him, Tim coughed.

“…Alright, so,’’ Tim said. “I take it that means I don’t need to do any follow up on the _Flying Dutchman_ statement?’’

Jon nodded. “Right. Right, yes.’’

“Cool,’’ Tim straightened out his papers. “You know, you just knocked over some—never mind. I’ll just head out, then.’’

Tim left quickly, closing the door a little too fast behind him. Jon blinked, and looked down. In the excitement of the vision, he had knocked over several items from his desk: a pencil holder, a paperweight, and a half empty glass of tea, brought in earlier by one of the assistants.

* * *

~to be continued  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The archivist meets the man from the ghost ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I take inspiration from 19th century opera. There is High Melodrama here, and I apologize for none of it. Also, this chapter was hard to write, unedited, and I am posting it anyway. 
> 
> Still don't know what I am gonna do about the ending, yet. But this is definitely gonna be longer than I anticipated. Hope you all enjoy the ride!
> 
> Oh, and as always: **mind the tags.**

This is the story of the Archivist.

Jonathan Sims picked up the wrong book as a child, and ever since then he’d had a tendency to see and know things beyond his reach. When he found Gertrude Robinson at the Magnus Institute had the same curious ability, he expected she would teach him to harness it. Instead, after he had formally signed the papers to be a part of her research team, she sat him down and told him the opposite.

“Your power—our power—is an evil thing,’’ she said. “We are not going to develop your talents, Jonathan. We are going to teach you to restrain them.’’

Gertrude was honest with Jon at least. She told him, Tim, and Sasha about the dread powers there were in the world, about people who served them, and about the various plots being enacted by these people. She was even candid about the Institute’s nature and her own purpose within it.

“The Magnus Institute was founded to record and preserve documented supernatural phenomena. It is also a temple to one of the dread powers—the Eye—so we happily will be ignoring that purpose,’’ she said. “Since the Director and I have taken control of the Institute, she and I have come to the conclusion that the preservation of knowledge is secondary to the safety of the world.’’

“But doesn’t preserving knowledge help you keep the world safe?’’ Sasha asked. “I mean, since it catalogs how to fight all of the nasties out there.’’

“No,’’ Gertrude said, firmly. “This knowledge, by its very nature, sows evil and increases the Eye’s power. We are not here to preserve this information, but to contain it and destroy it as it stops being useful.’’

Jon didn’t go against Gertrude’s rules. But eventually the day came when Gertrude was gone. They got very little information from the Director. Just a short statement declaring Gertrude was dead.

And then, like that, Jon was the new head archivist. After that, it didn’t take him long to find a monster worthy of using his powers: Jane Prentiss, the walking hive.

Tim and Sasha found him rifling through the statements the very first day of his new position.

“Jon,’’ Tim said. “What are you doing?’’

“We need info on Prentiss,’’ he said. 

Tim folded his arms. “Hey, didn’t Gertrude say something about, y’know, transforming into an evil eye monster if you read the statements?’’

“If I read too many statements,’’ he retorted. “A few won’t hurt.’’

“Jon.’’

“We can do more if we have more information.’’

Sasha sighed. “Gertrude did just fine—’’

“If she did ‘just fine,’’’ he said, “she would be here.’’

Awful silence followed. Jon’s only two friends in the world stared him down, trying to determine how much of what he was saying was some infernal power pulling at him. He could practically see the calculations behind their eyes. This had been Gertrude’s plan from the start, Jon realized. He would never simply be able to run the archives purely according to his own whims. There would always be Tim, Sasha, or the Director staring him down and demanding his justify his actions.

“Look, we—we can go halfway,’’ Jon said, finally. “You two can handle the research so I can stay away from serious encounters, like Gertrude wanted. Meanwhile I can look through the information we have here.’’

Tim looked at Sasha. “You know, that actually sounds reasonable,’’ he said.

“Hmm,’’ Sasha said. 

“We have a sentient worm-hive going around infecting people,’’ Jon urged. “There are worse things out there than… us. We need to do something about them.’’

“Alright,’’ Sasha said. “Sounds like a plan, then.’’ 

Jon didn’t explain, of course, exactly how thrilled he was that they accepted his logic. Because if they were out researching, then he would have the archives wholly to himself. Completely his, to hunt down all of the secrets Gertrude had hidden away. The first day he had them both away on a research trip—pure bliss. Finally, for a few days at a time, the archives could be for his eyes alone. 

It would have been perfect, except then the third assistant came. 

* * *

The morning the man arrived, he was in the archives even before Jon opened it.

That was odd in itself, of course. Jon always came in early, far earlier than Sasha or Tim, so when he saw someone disappearing around the corner of the shelves his heart about stopped. He froze, too fearful to speak for a moment, until he caught another a glimpse of the figure.

Grey, threadbare clothes with visible patches. Dull, windswept hair. A washed out, mousy man who looked like he had wandered in from off the street. He didn’t seem to notice Jon’s presence at all. Eventually, he reached out to touch something on the shelves, and that snapped Jon out of his trance. 

“Stop!’’ Jon barked. “’Hands off—what are you doing here?’’

The man turned. No worms. No webs. Just a normal face, youthful except for the sunken eyes and the most eerily vacant stare Jon had ever seen.

“What,’’ Jon repeated. “Are you doing in the archives?’’

“Oh. Oh!’’ the man shook his head, as though waking himself up. Every word and movement was slow, as though he were drugged. “I work here.’’

“No you don’t.’’

“Yes I do,’’ the man said. “Just ask Gertrude.’’

Gertrude’s name fired through Jon’s nerves like an electric shock. It was the same sensation he’d felt every time he’d seen her watching from the corner. Every time he’d known she was judging him. Every time he had wondered how she would deal with him, if she judged him to be straying from the path. 

For a terrible moment, it was as though he could feel her eyes on him again. Then, he snapped out of it.

“Gertrude is—retired!’’ he said loudly, “Which you would know if you did work here.’’

The man blinked. “That can be right.’’

“I am the archivist now,’’ Jon said. “I only have two assistants. Which means you need to be going.’’

“No. No, that can’t be it,’’ the man said distantly, fumbling through his pockets until he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “The contract. Gertrude said—’’

Jon snatched the paper from the man and read it. It was indeed an employment contract, identical to the one Jon had signed when he became an archival assistant. And—as he had learned from Gertrude before he had signed his own contract—archival assistants couldn’t quit or be fired by the archivist. 

He looked up. The man had retreated and was now staring at Jon again with the same hollow gaze. Jon approached and shoved the paper back at him. The man shrank back at first, then fumbled to grab the paper.

“Fine. Come with me. We’ll talk to the Director about this.’’

His tone made the man flinch. Good, Jon thought, glad that he made the stranger as uncomfortable as he was. He stormed back to the door, and barked.

“I said, come on!’’

The man hurried to obey, and they went up to her. But the Director was out on a trip. Rosie tartly informed him she would be out for a week. So instead Jon marched the man back down, in an even worse mood than before. 

“Just sit,’’ Jon said. “And don’t. Touch anything.’’

The man opened his mouth. Jon decided not to wait and listen to what he had to say. He stormed passed him and into his office, slamming the door as he did so. He didn’t care if he was childish—he had had the archives to himself, and now he didn’t. He clenched his fists, barely restraining himself from pounding the desk in sheer frustration at this turn of events. Then, finally, he buried his face in his hands.

Tim’s surprised shout drew him back out of his sulk.

“Boss! Boss, someone’s in the archives!’’

Jon looked up and out through the window in his door. Tim was gesticulating wildly, but the man was staring away—staring straight towards where Jon was, empty gaze fixed entirely on him.

* * *

“He’s just—I don’t know, he’s just weird,’’ Sasha said, when the three of them had convened out of earshot of the strange man. 

“I thought he was a ghost,’’ Tim said. “Boss, can you explain?’’

Jon just had to shake his head. “I’ll… try to get the Director to do something about it. In the meantime just… continue as normal. Don’t… tell him anything.’’

It was a few days beefore the Director came back. Jon kept coming in early in the mornings. No matter what hour he arrived, the man was already there. Every morning, he would tell the man not to touch or do anything, and then walk past him and go straight to his office. There, he set himself to the slow work of filtering out authentic statements from the inauthentic ones. Gertrude had stuffed the archive with said inauthentic ones purely to disorient him in the event of her death, apparently. 

Every time he looked out the window in his office door, the new assistant was staring at him.

“It doesn’t matter,’’ Jon said under his breath. “It doesn’t matter.’’

He turned his focus back to the statements. Gertrude Robinson had wanted Jon to restrain his power, but at the same time she had been forthright with him about how to increase it.

“Every time you experience something supernatural,’’ she had told him, “Every time you read one of the real statements, it will feed the Eye, which will feed you.’’

He hadn’t understood why she would tell him this, at the time. In his more hopeful moments, he thought that it was because she wanted it to be his choice. That she wanted him to use his power eventually, within in reason, and she was just rigorously making sure he learned restraint first so he could make wise decisions later.

Now, he was pretty sure it was bait—Gertrude told him in order to see if he’d try and feed the Eye when he knew, fully planning to kill him if he did. And with that thought, he looked back out the office window, to see the new assistant still staring at him. 

Had Gertrude hired this man to carry out her judgment after her death? To watch, to judge, and to kill Jon if he was found lacking?

“It doesn’t matter,’’ Jon repeated to himself. “It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter…’’

…Until he decided no, it did matter. Then, he opened his office door and barked out. 

“Stop that!’’

The man took a few seconds to answer. “Stop what?’’

“Stop—staring!’’ Jon said, flustered. “Hasn’t anyone told you that’s rude? Just—be normal.’’

He shut his office door. After some deliberation, he taped a paper over the glass window in his door. 

When the Director returned, Jon was ready to beg to have the man removed. 

“We have important work we need to be doing,’’ he said. “And then this man shows up, claiming Gertrude hired him and—and is completely suspicious! For all we know, he’s a spy sent from the Church of the Divine Host, or the Lukases, or…’’

“Who, Martin Blackwood?’’ the Director asked, blinking curiously. 

Jon had deliberately not learned the new assistant’s name. “…I suppose?’’ he asked.

The Director nodded. “Blackwood, yes, I remember him. Gertrude sent him an offer many years ago. I remember discussing it with her and giving approval to hiring him. You don’t have to worry. Blackwood is harmless.’’

“But he’s—’’ Jon wanted to scream. “He keeps staring. I can’t focus—and I can’t fire him, you know that. Can’t you do something?’’

“I can’t fire archival assistants any more than you can,’’ the Director said. “Not in the usual way at least. So I’m sorry, but you just have to deal with it.’’

Jon went back down to the archives, already in a bad mood from that conversation. Then he saw tea on his desk, and that tipped him over into fuming. He opened his door.

“You—!’’ he shouted out. 

The man—Martin, apparently—flinched.

“Don’t ever go into my office without my explicit permission.’’

“Sorry, sir. I just—’’

Jon closed the door instead of listening to anything he had to say. Then, after giving himself a moment to check over all his files and drawers, he went back to work.

* * *

If the Director would not get rid of Martin Blackwood, Jon decided to make life at the archives as unpleasant for the man as he could.

He started by taking a page out of the book of his primary school teachers: uniform violationss. The very next morning he came in, he snapped and ordered Martin Blackwood out of the archives. 

“You aren’t dressed professionally,’’ Jon told him. “If you will not wear work-appropriate attire, then you will not be allowed in the archives.’’

“What?’’ Martin asked after a moment processing this. “But what does that mean? What’s appropriate?’’

“Read the bloody handbook. Now, out!’’

He left—and apparently left to stand outside, watching ominously. Jon knew because Sasha and Tim came in demanding explanations, which Jon tersely gave.

“I don’t want him in my archives,’’ he said.

Sasha sighed. “Isn’t that a bit…’’ she didn’t finish, instead shaking her head. “What are you even trying to do? Make him quit? He can’t!’’

“Maybe with enough motivation he’ll find a way,’’ Jon replied tersely.

Martin Blackwood did not quit, of course. He came in later in a suit that looked like it was made for a funeral—all black, sleeves too long, poorly fitted to the man’s frame.

“That is not acceptable,’’ Jon told him. “Out.’’

“Then what is—’’

“Out!’’

Tim actually shot Jon a Look after witnessing that exchange. Jon ignored it until Tim broke the silence.

“Come on, boss,’’ Tim said. 

“He’s not—he might have killed Gertrude for all we know,’’ Jon said. “I can’t trust him.’’

“You don’t need to trust someone to not be a dick to them,’’ Tim insisted.

But Jon didn’t care if he was being a dick. He couldn’t stand to have Martin Blackwood’s empty eyes watching him while he worked. 

When he ran out of excuses to send Martin out for violating uniform regulations, he turned to other things: unprofessional behavior, not doing enough, doing things without being told to—anything at all.

Finally Tim got him to stop.

“Alright, this stopped being funny a week ago,’’ Tim said. “He’s here, alright? If Gertrude picked him, I am sure he’s good for something.’’

“But—’’

“Leave it, boss.’’

So then, Jon turned to ignoring Martin completely. Not looking at him, not speaking to him unless to tell him to stop doing something. Not using his name. Not acknowledging his presence unless he was forced to. Always feeling unsettled, but ever turning his attention back to the statements instead of the mysterious assistant Gertrude had hired. 

And then, he found the statement about the _Flying Dutchman_. Which he knew was an authentic one immediately because the second he touched it, the words will spilling out of his mouth. And the tape recorder turned on of its own accord.

“Statement of Brian Kelly, regarding a ghost ship he encountered on a voyage…’’

It was a simple statement. A sailor had caught sight of the infamous ghost ship and seen a single, lonely man on board calling out for the crew to send a message home to his mother, who turned out to have been dead for over a hundred years.

He could see a man in the fog, reaching over the side of the ship. The mist that was the Lonely blurred the man’s features into an anonymous haze. 

“The man on the ghost ship is bloodless and ghostly,’’ Jon said. “Every year on the ship, he deteriorates, losing memory after memory, falling farther and farther from the shape of a normal man—’’

And then, outside the office, something crashed. Jon was startled out of his vision. He went and opened his office door to see what the matter was.

Martin had dropped something. Apparently he had been standing right outside the door.

"You-'' Jon gulped. "'What-''

But Jon was never the steadiest after Seeing something. Before he could finish his thought, his vision went black.

* * *

“Our power is not a power that saves,’’ Gertrude had said. “It is a power that the world would be better off without.’’

For all Jon had nodded to that, he could not deny the rush that came with his power. The ability to see things without being there, to merely think about Prentiss and them have the information you needed flood you—it was one of the most exciting things Jon could experience.

It also left him ranting words he could not control, passing out at times, and during very wild fits even hitting his head—as he had just done. 

Of course, Martin just had to be the only one in the archive. He just had to be there and witness it. 

Jon woke up to find himself on the cot he kept in the back room. Martin was sitting by him, staring down impassively.

“You passed out,’’ Martin said.

“I’m aware,’’ Jon said testily. “What did you hear?’’

Martin just tilted his head. “In terms of…?’’

“Never mind,’’ Jon rasped. “Never mind, I—’’

Martin held out a cup of tea. Jon took it before he had time to think. Surprisingly, he remained unpoisoned.

“Get out, now,’’ Jon said after the tea soothed his throat. “Get out of my office.’’

Martin did. 

From then on, Jon started to have more visions. Not one of Prentiss, but ones connected to the authentic statements he read. Real bits of terror slowly piecing themselves together as he watched.

One led him to Gertrude’s hidden notes—all in a cypher he couldn’t understand. He resisted the temptation to tear them apart. 

* * *

Jon found another statement about the _Flying Dutchman_ , and another vision along with it. Tim caught him during that vision, even. A sad, nondescript man whose features faded the second after the vision was done, forever trapped in a cycle of trying to prove his own ability to be loved only to continually fail.

Jon, of course, discounted this vision immediately as completely useless.

“I need to know things about Gertrude and Prentiss,’’ Jon complained. “Why am I instead getting information about evil clowns and lonely ghost ships?’’ 

“Well, Gertrude did say that the power is deliberately trying not to be useful, insofar as it ‘tries’ anything,’’ Sasha said sympathetically. “It will probably take a lot of wrangling to actually get it to do anything you need.’’

“Isn’t it nice, though?’’ Tim said. “I mean, you see plenty of things that would kill you, yeah? It must be nice to get one that’s just a sad ghost man who can’t get a girlfriend.’’

Jon sighed. “I suppose so.’’

“I don’t know,’’ Sasha said lightly. “A ghost incel sounds pretty terrifying to me.’’

“What’s he gonna do?’’ Tim asked. “Neg you from beyond the grave?’’

Martin Blackwood passed by the breakroom where they were chatting. He stopped a moment, as though he were going to say something, before hurrying off instead.

Jon noticed, but quickly put it out of his mind.

* * *

Jon slowly allowed his paranoia about Martin Blackwood to take up less space in his head. 

He simply did not have time to concern himself with a useless assistant, he decided. Not even one who might be out to murder him. Not when Prentiss was at large, at least. 

Still, Martin continued to be there, bringing in tea every morning. Tim and Sasha were gone so often. The archives were quiet, and Jon kept coming up with dead ends trying to hunt down the real statements. So Jon got bored.

Jon once read a study that found people who were left alone with nothing to entertain themselves for an hour would usually press a button to shock themselves purely out of boredom. Because pain was better than boredom, to a human brain in need of stimulation. 

It was this sort of logic that led to Jon actually starting conversations with Martin Blackwood, even though it felt like pulling teeth.

“How did you know Gertrude, anyway?’’ he asked.

“Uh,’’ Martin said. “I met her a few times. Four times, I think.’’

“And how much did she explain to you?’’

Martin took a frustrating amount of time with that question. “Explain about what?’’

Jon threw up his hands. “Never mind. Just—get back to filing.

Martin was shit at filing. At everything, really. But Jon had reached a dead end, and he decided the strange murder-assistant needed to be useful too. So she had to painstakingly teach Martin how to go about it. 

Again, at least teeth-pulling frustration was better than boredom.

“Oh—you should give me your number,’’ Jon said at the end of one session. “So we don’t have any… repeats… of you going out for four days with no way of me contacting you to explain what you’re actually supposed to be doing.’’

Martin stared. “Oh!’’ he said finally. “Number, yes, like Rosie asked—hold on.’’

He went to his desk and shuffled through some papers. Finally, Martin seemed to find what he was looking for.

“Got it!’’ Martin said. “It’s 3061.’’

Jon felt that now familiar frustration rise in him.

“No, Martin,’’’he said through grit teeth. “Your phone number.’’

Martin looked agitated.

“Do not tell me you don’t have a phone,’’ Jon said, tiredly. “You absolutely must have a phone. Everyone has a phone.’’

“I….’’

It turned out Martin didn’t have a phone, and seemed skeptical of the idea that everyone had one. He actually made a face when Jon said that, as though Jon were pulling his leg.

Luckily, the scream-pillow was easy to reach.

“Alright,’’ Tim said, after Jon’s long complaining rant. “I’m guessing some kind of cult background, and he just got out.’’

“Are there cults that keep members that ignorant about technology?’’ Sasha asked. “You would think even the most technophobic cults at least know about phones.’’

“Who knows,’’ Tim said. “Gertrude apparently dealt with some weird cults. It would sort of make sense.’’

“Anyway,’’ Sasha said. “I think he’s been doing better. He’s got your new sorting system down at least, right Jon? I was thinking of taking him out during a follow-up, just so he can see what we do. Let him watch and then ease him into research work.’’

“But—’’

“He’s not a spy, Jon,’’ Sasha said. “Really, I think that’s clear by now.’’

“Yeah, I think I gotta agree with Sasha on that one,’’ Tim said. “He’s just a sad kid.’’

“But—’’ he’s not right, Jon wanted to say. There was still something off about him, some internal sense of Jon’s that raised his hackles at Martin.

“I was just thinking of taking him to the old abandoned winery in the last statement,’’ Sasha said. “You know, one of the ones that record digitally. Nothing important.’’

Jon sighed, and gave in. “Fine,’’ he said. “Anything to be free of him for a day.’’

* * *

For all he disliked Martin’s presence, Jon still found himself experiencing a strange irritation at Martin being away with Sasha for the day. A strange, insistent crawling in his gut. Paranoia. Worry. He texted Sasha, asked how the research was going, but it was early in the day, and he got nothing.

“Lighten up,’’ Tim said. “It’s fine.’’

“If Sasha never comes back,’’ Jon started, only for Tim to shush him.

“Sasha is fine,’’ Tim said. “She’s smarter and tougher than both of us, and Martin is a sad puddle of a human being. It’s downright insulting of you to suggest he could take her out.’’

Jon grumbled.

“Anyway, I am heading out,” Tim said. “Don’t bug Sasha too much.’’

Still, after he was gone, Jon found himself staring at his phone, the gnawing feeling growing. Then, a text.

_It’s alright so far! Just taking a look around the old winery._

And then, the vision came.

He saw Sasha lying on the ground, giving her final gasps as worms crawled out of holes on her skin and through the soft tissue lining in her eyes. He saw a different hand holding her phone, slowly but surely spelling out the next message as she leered over Sasha. Watching. Waiting until Sasha was finally completely dead, and then turning to a door. 

He saw Martin on the other side of that door, trapped in what looked to be an old pantry. The door was barred, and Martin was on the ground in the throes of what looked to be a panic attack.

Another text came in.

_No ghosts so far but Martin is so jumpy hahahaha._

Jon leapt up, grabbed his coat and charged off to the incident.

It’s not that he thought deliberately about it, and decided Martin was worth risking his life for. If someone had asked him beforehand—or even afterward—if he would risk his life for Martin Blackwood, Jon would have given a resounding no, absolutely not. It was just—an impulse. The urge to run to the scene was so immediate and powerful it crowded all logic out of his head. 

He knew instantly where to go, what road to take. The sudden burst of Knowing was intoxicating.

Even when he got there with no weapons and no plan—well, he was terrified. Completely, utterly terrified. But at the same time, when he locked eyes with Jane Prentiss he felt a powerful rush of adrenaline. To finally see, to experience in person what he had starved himself of so long—

The confrontation was a blur. He grabbed things without having any sort of plan in mind, suddenly Knowing what would work and what wouldn’t. He could feel his heart palpitations in his throat, as though the organ were about to squeeze through his esophagus and burst out of his mouth.

“Martin!’’ he called. “Martin—get out! Get away while she’s distracted!’’

And the door opened a crack for Jon to see the most utterly terrified expression on Martin’s face. So abjectly afraid that Jon couldn’t remember to mistrust him.

“Jon? Jon—oh god!’’

It was a miracle they got away together. They just barely managed to run to a door in time, which happened to lead to some tunnels. The door sealed shut, miraculously keeping any of the worms from crawling through. There were no words, then, just long terrified looks bleeding into relief, and the slow realization that Martin was clinging to him. 

Jon detached himself, and checked his phone.

“Tim,’’ he said. “I’ll text Tim. We can get him to bring a fire extinguisher—that worked. Tim can help.’’

“Why?’’

Jon hissed in annoyance while he sent out his SOS message. “Because he’s not stuck in some mysterious catacombs, Martin!’’

“N-no, I mean why… you just, charged in! That was dangerous! Why would you… for me?’’

Jon stared at him, trying to form words. A million things flashed in his mind. The image of Sasha dead at that thing’s hands. The irritation over the past few years of constantly staying out of the field, being kept from the real meat of the supernatural. Martin staring forlornly into the distance, never any emotion on his face beside blankness or sudden terror upon being spoken to. The thrill at finally seeing Prentiss—seeing horror—in the gruesome flesh. All of these things mixing together into an incoherent mush.

“Well, it wasn’t just you,’’ Jon said, aware of his tone going sharp. “Sasha is—was my best assistant. I was keen not to lose her.’’

“Oh… of course.’’

Jon looked uncomfortably away, swallowing. Of course, he’d known Sasha was already dead at the time, but the answer felt like the most comfortable one to give. 

Tim’s text came in.

_Why didn’t you call me first? Or the police, christ_

_We agreed you wouldn’t go out in the field, Jon._

_What about Sasha?_

Jon swallowed, and put his phone back. He closed his eyes, re-thinking his actions for a horrid second.

 _I saved Martin,_ he typed. _I *can* help people with it. Gertrude was wro—_

But then he looked at Martin, and didn’t send it.

* * *

Tim was stricken when he heard about Sasha, and Jon… Jon tried to be there, but he said all of the wrong things. After a few days, Tim came in and handed him a form for bereavement leave.

“I can’t deal with this,’’ he said. “I need time.’’

“Okay,’’ Jon said. “I… I understand.’’

He signed it, and hoped that things would be better when Tim came back. Then, Jon holed himself away in his office, trying and failing to refocus on sorting through the statements. And Martin—

Martin continued as before. Sitting quietly. Staring at the wall. Slowly sorting and filing as Jon had been teaching him. Jon flipped up the paper over his office door window just enough to be able to see him working, as expressionless as ever.

Jon didn't say anything to him, but instead quietly slipped past him and into the emptiest part of the archives. Searching alone, he thought, would help.

He found it, then: Jane Prentiss’s statement. 

Jon didn’t even need to read it to know it was hers. It sent a thrill up his arm at the touch, an instant whiff of Knowing. He was still standing in front of the shelves, and he hadn’t brought the tape recorder, but he was already recording, lips moving without his conscious thought. 

The visions overcame him as he read. He saw Jane—was her, as he spoke aloud to the empty archives. 

“ _Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved?”_ Jane Prentiss asked, her pain bleeding into his own voice. “ _Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.’’_

“Oh.’’ Martin said wistfully. “So she just wanted love.’’

Or perhaps the archives were not so empty after all.

Jon whirled around, the sudden motion making him sway a bit. For once, Martin’s gaze wasn’t empty but keenly focused. For a moment, Jon felt that old alarm. The suspicion that Martin was Gertrude’s eyes after her death, watching him and preparing to take him out for his sins. But no—Martin’s expression was soft. 

“I think I can understand her,’’ Martin said. “It hurts so much to be lonely.’’

“Yes, I suppose,’’ Jon said lamely. The statement and the visions had taken it out of him, again. He tried to put his hand on the shelf, but missed and—

—and then he was in Martin’s arms, feeling himself being moved. Far away, he heard a voice. A faded _Jon? Jon?_

“What—?’’ Jon asked. 

“Oh, finally,’’ Martin said, talking much faster than Jon was used to. His voice coming in to focus. “You fell! You almost hit your head again. You read a statement and passed right out on your feet! I was just about to lay you down. What’s wrong? Did you even sleep last night? Did you eat anything? I have been here all day and I haven’t seen you have so much as a snack. Did you even have any water or—’’

“I’m fine,’’ Jon said.

“Yeah, that’s not true,’’ Martin said. 

Jon tried to give an indignant scoff. Martin set him down on his cot.

“What time is it? Jane Prentiss’s statement, where did you put it? I have to--’’

Martin put a hand on his shoulder, effectively holding him down to the cot. “Nope. No work for you. Not until you get some food and water.’’

Jon grumbled, but let himself fall back into the cot. 

Martin was fussy the rest of the afternoon, prying into his work habits, his sleep habits—all of his habits, really. Talking too fast, his face doing funny things when Jon answered his questions ( “Five hours. That’s a perfectly reasonable time to sleep’’ “…Oh, Jon.’’), altogether being much more animated that normal. Jon brushed him off as much as he could, practically batting him away the way one might a very large fly.

Martin gave him a face before he left that evening, scrunching up his nose. 

* * *

Jon ceased being suspicious of Martin Blackwood for… two days, after that. But then, completely by himself with the man, Tim no longer serving as any kind of buffer... the wheels of Jon's brain started to turn.

Martin and Sasha had both gone on a research trip. Only Martin had survived. 

Perhaps Martin had colluded with Prentiss from the start. Perhaps Martin has some ability to control what information Jon got from his visions. Perhaps, perhaps—

There were too many fatal possibilities. Jon decided the best course of action was to follow Martin home, set up cameras if necessary, make note of every single person he interacted with. This way, he could determine if Martin was conspiring with anyone. 

The very first day of Jon’s investigation, he followed Martin to an abandoned building. Which was promising, except that instead of meeting Prentiss there Jon looked through a broken window and saw him pull out tarp and wrap himself up in it.

Martin Blackwood, respectable employee of the Magnus Institute, slept on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. Jon was so stunned it took him a moment for him a moment to process this. Then, he walked in, crouched down to where Martin sleeping and grabbed him by the arm. 

Martin woke up, yelling.

“What,’’ Jon said. “Are you doing here?’’

“Sleeping?’’ Martin asked. 

“Why not in your goddamn flat?’’

“I-I- Because I don’t have one?’’

Jon wanted to tear out his hair. 

“Yes, you do! You must! I know you have the salary for it!’’ he snapped.

“Um, I tried to rent one,’’ Martin said. “But it didn’t work out.’’

“How?’’ Jon demanded, his voice raising. “How does this very basic, normal thing just ‘not work out’ for you?’’

Martin cringed, and then the words came pouring out.

“I tried to. I really did. It’s so hard to walk up to people and ask them things about—getting a flat or anything like that. But I did. I went to try and get a place. Then they gave me these papers, and I didn’t understand them at all and I didn’t know how to fill them out. And they asked for my number. But apparently the number I gave wasn’t right, it’s not a phone number, or the number Rosie gave me. It’s a different number and apparently everyone has one but I don’t know how to find it? I—and they looked at me like I was so stupid…’’

Martin’s eyes were darting around, clearly uncomfortable but he kept talking as though he couldn’t stop himself.

“Another place didn’t ask for a number, so I thought I could do it. I gave my salary check to but they said I needed to cash it in a bank first. But then the bank said that I needed to have an account, and they wouldn’t let me make an account without the number again. I don’t even know what the number is about, or where I might find mine—’’

“Why didn’t you ask then?!’’ Jon demanded, losing his patience. 

Martin stared at him. For once his empty expression crumbled, and Jon already knew the answer before he said it.

“It’s just that people um, yell at me,’’ Martin faltered. “Wh-when I don’t know things.’’

Because of course, that is what Jon had been doing. 

“Or they laugh,’’ Martin continued. “They just—it hurts. It really hurts. I go up to people, and I ask things and apparently my questions don’t even make sense, and they look at me and it _hurts_ and then I don’t even want to ask anyone to help me or explain things to me. Even if it means staying on the street, I don’t want to—I just hate it. I wish—Gertrude said she’d help me, but she’s gone, and I can’t find Gerry anywhere…but it’s okay. I can—I’ve done this before, I’m used to it…’’

“It is definitely not okay,’’ Jon said.

“It’s fine. I’ve done this for a while—’’

“Prentiss can find you too easily out here,’’ he said. “She could just—infect you in your sleep, and then you will bring the whole… infestation down on all of us at the Institute.’’

Martin looked aghast. “I’m—I’m sorry…’’

“Don’t—apologize,’’ Jon said through gritted teeth. He thought for a moment, before he let his shoulders drop and came to a conclusion. “Stay in the Institute.’’

Martin blinked. “What?’’

“There is a room in the archives I use sometimes,’’ Jon said. “We—Well, it will be safer for all us if you stay there. For now.’’

Martin stared. Jon shifted.

“Stop staring like that,’’ Jon snapped. “It’s only until we sort out your… situation. Now. Get up.’’

Without thinking, he held out his hand. He thought about worms crawling under Martin’s skin and into his, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he let Martin take it, and pulled him up.

* * *

Martin slept. Jon stayed and rifled through all of Gertrude's notes.

Oddly, that very night Jon’s first learned how to read her cypher. He was reading them through, trying to compare it with various cyphers he had been reading up on. Then suddenly it came to him in a burst of static. 

Context-less abbreviations and numbers suddenly became as easy to read as plain English, and Jon read it as such, Gertrude’s thoughts at the time pouring into him as surely as though she were whispering them into his ear.

_The Corruption seems to be the opposite of the Lonely,, and thus we might be able to leverage the one against the other. How could we accomplish this? Infect a lonely-touched victim with the hive, perhaps? Will check to see if I can contact Blackwood. He might be the best person to test this theory on._

Jon stared at the entry several times. Funny enough, he was sitting right across from where Martin was sleeping, his face peaceful as a baby's in sleep.

From then on, Jon decided to stop caring about how Gertrude would have judged him.

* * *

Jon hated having Martin around in the archives. Even with Martin getting better at his job every day, even with the reassurance that Gertrude didn’t hire Martin to kill him.

Hated it.

Because of course, Martin managed to be even more of a pain now that he was living in the archives. 

Every morning when Jon came in, he was already there with tea. He seemed to lose all his fear of Jon, so he’d pop into his office without knocking. Why? Purely to ask inane questions like “Did you eat yet?’’ or “Have you had any water today?’’ 

Somehow he developed a way of being able to tell when Jon was dishonest, and would then refuse to leave his office until Jon had some toast at least. During the work day Martin became more… animated, for lack of a better term. He buzzed around with a nervous energy, going from trying to stay completely silent to buzzing around, eager to please and talking far too much. But of course, the worst of it was after hours.

Jon used to have the archives completely to himself at the end of the day. But now, Martin was there, peeking around the corner, staring at him. Judging him, though not in the dreadful way Jon had been worried about at first.

“It’s 10pm Jon,’’ Martin said one night.

“Well at least you know how to tell time.’’

“Jon,’’ Martin nagged.

“Leave me alone, or I’ll fire you.’’

Somehow, the threat didn’t frighten Martin nearly as much as before. “You haven’t had dinner! You can’t keep this up!’’

And then, of course, it made staying the night in the archives a bit more awkward. Jon had been used to sleeping a few nights a week. It cut down on his commute time, and gave him more precious hours to work. Now, though, when he got down on his cot, Martin was across from him. Tossing and turning. Snoring. Just disturbing the peace with his general presence.

And then, one night, crying. Almost noiseless weeping on his cot while he held his employment contract. Jon wouldn’t even have seen it—he had actually headed home for the night, but had returned to get something. So, completely by accident, he walked in on Martin in tears.

“Martin.’’

The mention of his name made Martin jump and wipe his eyes, but not say anything.

“I—’’ Jon fumbled. He was terrible at comforting people. “I know it’s not… it’s not the best of situations, this job… Gertrude should have informed you, but for what it’s worth, I am sorry.’’

But to his surprise, Martin actually smiled. Beamed through his tears. A pure, unfiltered smile.

“No, no, no,’’ he said, voice breaking with what sounded more like a laugh than anything else. “It’s not that. It’s good. It’s good!’’

Jon stared. “’What?’’

“It’s been more that six months,’’ Martin babbled. “I completely lost track of time. And I’m still here. I’m still here. He hasn’t come to take me back. I might be—I might not have to go back?’’

Jon, did not understand any of this, but he nodded. “I am glad for you, then.’’

And then Martin curled up and sobbed happy tears over something Jon didn’t understand. Unsure of what else to do, Jon sat next to him. Not moving to put a hand on him, just sitting quietly and listening.

* * *

When Prentiss attacked, Jon reversed his opinion. He did regret bringing Martin into the archives. Or at least, not getting him into his own flat sooner. 

Prentiss was after the Institute, and the Archivist. Having Martin in the archives only endangered him. When they were trapped in that one soundproofed, climate controlled room it seemed obvious. 

It happened first too fast, with screaming and worms bursting out of he wall and flying in the air. Then, it happened too slow, with the sound of worms crawling outside their door and the slow, smug knock of Prentiss outside.

“God,’’ Jon said. “This had to happen at night, didn’t it?’’

Because of course it had happened then, when no one else was at the damn Institute to see or hear.

“Can you send a phone message to someone?’’ Martin asked. 

“Text,’’ Jon corrected, testily. “And no. There’s no signal down there.’’

So they waited—and Prentiss waited too. They stripped and checked for worms at the slightest itch—found them, too, and had to pull them out with a corkscrew. 

_Knock knock._

“How long until someone comes to check on the archives?’’ Martin asked.

“Tim is still on leave,’’ Jon said. “No one… no one else comes down here, much. But maybe someone will… notice.’’

Martin slumped. “Great.’’

They took turns sleeping, keeping watch. 

_Knock knock._

There wasn’t much to do in the room, besides talk. There weren’t even statements to read. Just nothing, nothing but Martin Blackwood. Jon remembered the experiment where people shocked themselves purely out of boredom, and decided to take the plunge.

“What is wrong with you, anyway?’’ he asked.

Martin blinked. “What?’’

“You never ask about anything,’’ Jon said. “You’ve been chased by a sentient worm queen, and you haven’t asked a single question about it all.’’

“Should I have?’’

“That is the normal human thing to do, yes,’’ Jon said. “Did you already know?’’

Martin tilted his head, confused. “About Prentiss?’’

Jon sighed. Again, it was like pulling teeth. “About all the supernatural.’’

“I mean, of course I already knew some of it,’’ Martin said. “I would have to, wouldn’t I? You know.’’

Jon did not know. 

_Knock knock._

“You never even tried to quit. And you never asked about my… episodes,’’ Jon said. “You knew what those were?’’

“I figured you were like Gertrude,’’ Martin said. “And I also figured you didn’t want me to ask, anyway. I mean, it’s only fair. You never asked me about the curse.’’

Jon squinted at him. Martin looked at him guilelessly. “The curse?’’

“Yeah, you know.’’

Jon did not know. But Martin was barreling on.

“I mean, that’s why I haven’t quit. I mean, of course I can’t quit. But even if I could quit, I couldn’t. Argh, I am not making sense. I mean, if I wasn’t anchored to the Institute, I’d be lost. He’d come back and take me away again, and I think it’s better here than there.’’

Jon re-ran all those words in his head, trying to make sense of them. It didn’t work. “What?’’

_Knock knock._

“What are you talking about?’’ Jon asked. “What curse? Who’s ‘he.’’’

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!’’ Martin actually sounded angry. “Are you going to make me say it? You already know! I heard you, both times! I know you saw everything, and then you had to go—go gossip about me with Tim and Sasha. What else could I possibly tell you about it all?’’

Jon still did not piece it together. 

“You know who I am. You know it. You saw it. You already know Don’t make me talk about it,’’ Martin’s anger trailed off, and his voice cracked at the end. “Please.’’

Jon gaped. And then, he knew. Peter Lukas. The ghost ship. The forlorn man reaching out over the side.

“Good lord,’’ he said. “You’re the Flying Dutchman.’’

Martin stared at him, incredulously. “No, I’m not!’’ he said, indignantly.

“But—’’

“The _Flying Dutchman_ is the ship, Jon,’’ Martin said, scrunching his nose. “I’m not a ship, obviously. I’m—’’

“A ghost,’’ Jon said, feeling himself pale.

“A g—I didn’t die!’’

Before Jon could bite out a retort, a shriek interrupted them. 

After hours of horrid waiting, everything was happening too fast. There was the smell of smoke, and then sound of a roaring fire. The door burst open. Worms flew in. Martin grabbed Jon protectively, pulling him away as the worms made for them.

But it was over almost as soon as it started. The smell of burning, and the feeling of searing heat drowned everything out. When Jon could orient himself, he saw Jane Prentiss on the ground in the doorway, burning. 

Behind her stood the Director, who held Prentiss in a death grip as she burned. The wretched woman struggled to get away for a moment, screaming in agony with all of her worms. Then, she fell silent, and her remains burned to ash. The fire started to lick at the wooden floor. 

“Oh thank god,’’ Martin said, letting Jon go.

“Director,’’ Jon said. “Thank goodness—’’

The Director stepped over Prentiss’s remains, and tilted her head at him.

“You have some,’’ she said. “In your face.’’ 

Then, she reached out, and dug her fingers into their flesh, burning the worms to death underneath his skin.

Jon screamed.

* * *

Agnes Montague, Director of the Magnus Institute, had never struck Jon as a particularly competent person. She apparently had been director for almost two decades, and was around Gertrude’s age, but she had the look and manner of a very confused woman in her early 20’s. He rarely saw her, and he had always had the feeling she never did any real work, instead being the Director in name only and leaving all of the actual work to Gertrude or Rosie. 

Jon had not known about the Desolation powers. When he came in to her office for a debrief after Prentiss burned, he didn’t know what to expect.

“You—you’re like Prentiss,’’ he blurted immediately. 

“Yes,’’ she said. “And so are you.’’

For a second Jon felt a thrill of fear, and wondered if she had brought him up here to burn him, too. He gulped. “What do you want from me.’’

“Well, Prentiss is dead,’’ the Director said. “So I need you to give me all statements and artifacts related to your investigation of her.’’

“Okay,’’ he said, not feeling relieved. “….why?’’

“Because they are no longer useful. Contain information that’s dangerous but useful, and then destroy the information that is no longer useful. I am sure Gertrude trained you to do this, yes?’’

Contain and destroy. The unspoken motto of the administration, here, that Gertrude had shared with him. Somehow, learning the Director was Desolation rather than Beholding made it all make sense.

“I… don’t think it would be a good idea,’’ he said. “I mean, we don’t—Gertrude kept all of these files for a reason, and we don’t really know… it might be useful, later.’’

The Director’s gaze burned into him. 

“We could…’’ he swallowed. “We don’t know what will be useful. I’m… I need to stimulate more Knowing. I could find out how Gertrude died…’’

The Director tilted her head, strangely childlike. “Is that what has been driving you? No need then. I can tell you how she died.’’

Jon froze. He had gotten the announcement of Gertrude’s death from the Director. For some reason, he had assumed she had told him everything she knew. Stupid assumption, it seemed.

“Three bullets,’’ the Director said. 

“How do you—’’

“She did it herself.’’

Jon closed his mouth. The Director hummed as thought thinking hard about what to say next.

“Gertrude was always with me in mind,’’ she said. “She was when she died too. And also the moment she decided herself she had to die.’’

“Wh—I don’t believe you,’’ he said. “You—you might have killed her yourself! And are just saying things to make me…’’

The Director tilted her head. “Then ask,’’ she said. “Make me say the truth.’’

“What?’’

“Gertrude could.’’

Jon grit his teeth. “Okay,’’ he said. “Did you kill Gertrude Robinson?’’

He felt the power flow through him, the air and the waves of his voice bending and distorting around him. 

“No, she killed herself with no urging from me.’’

As surely as he knew his visions, he knew she was telling the truth. 

“Why did she kill herself?’’ he asked. 

“Because her powers had progressed farther than she had expected and she became a danger to the world,’’ Montague said. “It can happen to any Archivist, it turns out. Archivists are a ritual, did you know? When they get powerful enough, they become a hinge through which the Door can open.’’

Jon almost choked. Montague continued.

“Gertrude learned a while back. She thought she could prevent herself from becoming that, if she abstained enough. But eventually, she dabbled too much, and then one day she began to speak the Words. Words that came to her unbidden, that slipped right out of her lips even as she tried to shut them. Words that, should she speak them in entirety, would end the world. 

“I felt it, the moment she knew what the Words would do. She had trained so long to be able to stay in control of herself, so she was able to stop—but she would eventually start back up again from the beginning. Sometimes without realizing it.’’

Montague hummed again, seeming unbothered. 

“She did try tearing her tongue out first. But it grew back. So then she shot herself. It took three bullets. She healed from the first one, so after that she decided to shoot herself in the eyes. That worked. She died alone. I found her a few days after and burned her body.’’

“Why?’’ Jon asked. “Surely that can’t be—we could have hel—why?’’

Montague looked at him, and Jon felt he was burning. “Gertrude had decided what was important to her. She decided that it was so important it mattered more than any one life—even her own. What is your important thing, Mr. Sims?’’

“I don’t want to die!’’ Jon blurted.

“Neither did Gertrude,’’ said Montague. 

Jon stammered. 

“Is the world your important thing?’’ she asked. “If it was you or the world, would you pick the world, like Gertrude did?’’

“I don’t think I—I don’t, I can’t…’’

Montague’s gaze wasn’t deliberately cruel. Rather, it was alien. Curious. A bit like a child who didn’t know how inappropriate the question was, or maybe like an old woman who had lost all sense of propriety. Jon did not answer, or even look Montague in the eyes. Instead, he got up and turned to leave. Right before he did, he thought of one more question, and practically whirled around.

“Did you or Gertrude hire Martin on to… kill me, if I got out of hand?’’ he asked.

Because the suspicion was still there. Still there, after everything—

“Is that what you were worried about with him?’’ she asked. “No, of course not. I don’t think Mr. Blackwood is capable of killing anyone. That’s what Sasha was for.’’

“I—’’ Jon felt as thought the wind had been kicked out of his chest. “Sasha?’’

“Yes,’’ the Director bobbed her head. “We screened a lot of people. Gertrude picked out Sasha as the one most likely to be able to sacrifice a friend who became a threat.’’ 

“Oh,’’ Jon said. All of the times Sasha had consoled him, or advised him, or gone out for drinks with him or Tim flashed through his mind. “I see.’’

When he went back to the archives, he found a pile of ash, where Director Agnes Montague had burned every single authentic statement he’d found and read in the past few months.

* * *

In a reversal of the natural order of things, Jon refocused on the problem of Martin to get his mind off of work.

Getting a bank account for someone who wasn’t supposed to exist anymore and should have died two centuries ago turned out to be a massive headache. Jon had to learn how to forge paperwork. Then he had to hold Martin’s hand as he went to the bank, and then to a flat. He had to explain how to sign paperwork, for crying out loud. But at the end of it all, Martin had his own place, and he turned to Jon and smiled. 

It wasn’t a smile of pure, unfiltered joy like before. It was uncertain, as though Martin didn’t really know how to react.

“You didn’t have to do all of this,’’ he said.

“Better than having you bringing fleas or worms into the archives,’’ Jon grumbled.

Martin closed his eyes. “Right.’’

“I’m sorry,’’ Jon said quickly. “That was—that’s not what I intended to say.’’

Martin looked back to him. Not saying anything, but waiting.

“I only mean… it’s better for everyone, if your situation is… stable. Better for me, better for Tim. And…’’ Jon trailed off. “Your eyes are different.’’

Martin touched his face, surprised. “Huh?’’

“I thought they were grey.’’ Jon shook his head. “I suppose they were before.’’

“What color are they now?’’

There was such naked emotion on Martin’s face, so different from the emptiness from those first few months at the archives.

“Brown,’’ he said. “Or, honey colored. There are still some flecks of, of other colors, too. Grey. Green. Just a little.’’

And then Martin gave that pure, unfiltered happy smile. Jon turned away.

“Anyway,’’ he said. “I—thank you for everything.’’

He looked down and realized he’d awkwardly put his hand on Martin’s. Uncertain of himself, he turned it into a vigorous handshake.

“See you Monday,’’ he said.

“See you Monday,’’ Martin repeated.

On his way out, Jon looked back and saw Martin still watching him from the window. 

* * *

For some reason, that damn handshake kept repeating in Jon’s memory. Probably because it had been so hideously awkward. Jon hated touching people, or being touched, even for such simple gestures. He never knew when was the right time to do it, or how long to hold such contact, and the uncertainty of it all frayed every single neuron in his brain.

Martin’s skin had been cold and soft. A gentle touch. The thought was almost comforting, except then it was railroaded by, again, the horrendous awkwardness of the whole moment. 

Jon threw himself on his bed and willed the painkillers to knock him out.

Strangely, the thought of a gentle brush of the hands spiraled into something else. A vision as Jon fell to sleep. A gentle, sad one. He saw the man from the _Flying Dutchman_ —Martin, he saw Martin—wandering the streets, tired and ghostly and lost. 

Every seven years of pure solitude on the ocean had left him hollower, more confused. The world was always so different when he returned. Only the judgment in people's eyes never changed. The eyes of his fellow humans drove him away into the streets, into corners. Each time he came back, it was harder to talk to people, harder to meet their eyes.

Harder to imagine any of them could love him.

When Gertrude Robinson found him, he had Forgotten again and had been wandering the streets, babbling about his mother.

“Mum?’’ he called, tears threatening to spill. “Oh god, I left my mum—where is she? I put her, I put her in a house? But I don’t know—I can’t remember—’’

Gertrude Robinson sighed.

“Mr. Blackwood,’’ she said. “Tell me what happened to your mother.’’

The power of the Beholding worked almost instantly, crackling through the memory loss.

“She died,’’ Martin said. “It was years ago. She died and when she went, I could feel everything she felt. And she never loved—she n-never loved—’’

He crumpled up. Gertrude put a hand on his shoulder. It was, in fact, the first gesture of kindness anyone had shown Martin in several decades. 

They spoke of many things that were lost to Jon’s dreaming ears. At the end of it, Gertrude had a favor to ask.

“I need your help to undercut Lukas, Mr. Blackwood,’’ she said. “You’re a battery right now, feeding into his power. We need to remove every source of his that we can.’’

Martin shook his head. “I just—’’ he said. “I can’t. I would need to find someone who could love me, but no one ever could. No one ever will. Not even my mum—’’

“Don’t be foolish,’’ Gertrude said. “We won’t be looking for someone to love you. That would be pointless. Lukas would never have made that the bet if he weren’t sure the deck were stacked against you.’’

Of course, Martin’s expression crumpled. Gertrude squeezed his shoulder. 

“Never play a monster on its own terms, Mr. Blackwood,’’ she told. “We aren’t going to play by Lukas's rule. We are going to cheat. Perhaps, if we tie you to another power…’’

Jon woke up. There were still painkillers in his system, along with images of burnt statements, an image of a beaming smile, and an infuriating, awkward handshake that still refused to leave his brain. But through it all, the main thought that rose above it all was that Gertrude Robinson was wrong.

 _Martin Blackwood can be saved_ , he thought. 

Jon would make sure of it. He would find someone to love Martin Blackwood. He closed his eyes, making it a pact and letting the words dance around on the edge of falling back to sleep.

_Martin Blackwood can be loved. Martin Blackwood can be saved._

_Martin Blackwood can be loved. Martin Blackwood can be saved…_

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr if you feel like it: fakeCRfan.tumblr.com


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